


love that dare not speak its name

by jungwooed



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Nudity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unreliable Narrator, Use of the word whore, expatriates in paris, hopelessly in love renhyuck, learn some sexy french, mentions of suicide (not graphic), post-WW1, the lost generation, tortured artists, you might need google translate for some parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25437676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungwooed/pseuds/jungwooed
Summary: Renjun thought about his quick, tobacco-tasting tongue and his beautiful scars and the way he seemed to know exactly where to poke and prod at Renjun to get the reaction he wanted. Donghyuck played him like a harp, with skilled, delicate fingers. It was almost cruel, the precision and care he took when pulling him apart. Such an artful way to commit such a violent act.Or: Renjun and Donghyuck are artists living in 1920's Paris. Donghyuck is a soldier and Renjun is a painter. They meet in the middle.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Lee Donghyuck | Haechan
Comments: 51
Kudos: 140





	love that dare not speak its name

**Author's Note:**

> please note: I am not a fluent French speaker. I've been studying for several years, but to a native speaker my French might sound awkward, so I'm sorry if that's the case

Their relationship was borne out of sheer convenience. 

Donghyuck was a simple man. He liked heat, pleasure, power, passion. Donghyuck liked basking in the afterglow with a cigarette between his lips and the smugness of having something beautiful in your hold. 

It was perfect. 

Except Renjun was not so simple. He wanted the fragility, the fear, the romantic stroke of hands along his calves. Renjun wanted to be held because someone was just too afraid they'd wake up to find he was never real. 

But Renjun could see the romanticism of yearning for someone as splintered as Donghyuck. He was broken glass glittering in the light of the sun. A love letter torn to shreds. Ashes floating on summer breeze. 

It was the reason Renjun moved to Paris in the first place, chasing the promise of romance. He soon learned it was all a trick, a trap. Paris was a sad city. People lazed for hours in cafés because they had nothing better to do. They lived life like escargot, slowly meandering aimlessly until they crawled their way onto a dinner plate. They were made from stone in place of flesh. 

The people of Paris bored Renjun. Painfully so. 

That is, until he met Donghyuck. 

Donghyuck was the most lively creature Renjun had ever seen. He’d glowed. Brighter than the lights of the Eiffel Tower. His skin was radiant and golden, easily standing out from the pallid, sunken faces of the Parisian population.

Renjun met him at the Père Lachaise Cemetery, on one particularly frosty morning in January. Renjun’s cheeks had been ruddy and the bags under his eyes heavy as he wandered through the stone forest. His fingers had grown numb around his well-loved copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray,_ a single cream-coloured rose tucked between the pages. 

Renjun spent hours looking for the grave, but to no avail. He started to get the strange sense that the longer he wandered through the tombs, the more he blended in with the ghosts. 

He had seen no one in his hours of search, so he nearly thought he was imagining it when he spotted a head of brown, messy curls through the stones. Donghyuck had been just as beautiful then, with his tanned skin and the sharpness of his gaze. 

“Es-tu perdu?” He asked, taking a lazy drag of his cigarette. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the grave of Chopin, which was haloed in flowers, all shriveled and dry from the cold. 

“Pardon? Je ne parle pas très bien,” Renjun said bashfully, his blush no longer from the icy wind whipping his cheeks. 

“Tu parles anglais?” 

Renjun nodded. 

“Who are you looking for?” Donghyuck shoved the cigarette butt into one of the vases of flowers, and Renjun could hear it sizzle to its death in the murky water. 

“Oscar Wilde.” 

“Follow me,” he’d said. “He’s a popular one.”

“I bet.” Renjun stroked the cover of the book with his thumb. 

“So, you’re American?” Donghyuck asked. 

“Yes, but I’ve lived in Paris for nearly a year.” 

“Et tu ne peux pas parler le français?” Donghyuck laughed at him. It was an ugly, noisy laugh, and Renjun scrunched his nose in distaste.

“Mais tu es impoli. Quoi est plus mauvais?” 

“Touché.” 

They finally reached Oscar Wilde’s grave, and Renjun’s not quite sure how he missed it. It was almost painted red, and at first glance, it looked like blood. But upon closer inspection, Renjun found that it was not blood, it was lipstick. Thousands of little red, mauve, berry, pink lips dotted the smooth, white surface of the stone. Above, there flew a wide-winged figure with a tall Egyptian headdress. 

Renjun kissed the book and set it down amongst the many other tributes. He took a moment, said a prayer in his head so it remained a secret from Donghyuck, who stood a few feet away, eyes burning into the back of Renjun’s neck. 

But it didn’t remain a secret much longer. 

Renjun found himself gasping it into Donghyuck’s mouth while they rocked against each other in bed, the sheets rustling like whispers in Renjun’s ears. 

“Sing to me,” Renjun breathed into Donghyuck’s neck, his skin hot to the touch. Donghyuck whined into Renjun’s hair and he smiled. “Sing.” 

Renjun felt Donghyuck everywhere. Tingling in his toes, a pressure in his ears, pain in his spine. 

“Fuck, Renjun.” Donghyuck fell onto his elbows over Renjun. All movement ceased, Renjun curled his fingers in Donghyuck’s hair. He felt Donghyuck panting against his sternum, heating up the skin beyond what Renjun could bear. 

“Donghyuck,” Renjun said breathily, kissing his scalp. “I think I might burn alive.” 

Donghyuck rolled off of Renjun, and off the four-poster. He reached for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket and lit one up while Renjun tried to return the feeling to his legs. 

“You might trick me into thinking I’m in love with you,” he said humorously, pulling on his boxers as he fell back on the bed in a heap. “You’re too pretty for your own good.” Donghyuck traced his ribs with his fingertip, and Renjun flinched when he pressed in a little too hard. 

“Shut up.”

The next morning, Renjun thumbed the rosy hickies Donghyuck had so carelessly sucked into his stomach. They reminded him of the pink presses of lips laid all over the tomb of Oscar Wilde. 

Donghyuck had left in a whirlwind that morning, something about a play and revisions and a woman named Gertrude. 

Renjun had tried to call after him, a soft _I love you_ sitting in his mouth, right between his tonsils. They had just met, but he’d already found it so difficult to say goodbye. 

His throat hurt, his back hurt, his chest hurt. 

He needed a bath. 

Renjun didn’t bother to heat the water up, and he shivered under the chill. He scrubbed his skin clean, digging his nails into his stomach. 

Donghyuck was so _simple,_ so casual. Donghyuck could fuck him like a lover then use him like an ashtray. 

And the truth was, Renjun would let him. 

  
  
  
  


Renjun didn’t have the wits to leave Donghyuck, to realize that he was being manipulated for his entertainment like a marionette. Renjun would see the way the sun reflects off his skin, with its golden glow, and he forgot it all. He would risk it all for Donghyuck. He’d throw himself in the fire for Donghyuck. He’d betray his country for Donghyuck. He’d kiss Donghyuck as many times as it took for him to feel human again. Renjun didn’t care if one day he’d be kissing Donghyuck’s gravestone. 

Donghyuck was a genius, too. He had a beautiful brain. 

Sometimes he’d say things so quick and so sly. Renjun never would’ve guessed he was a fighter, because he always spoke like a lover. 

Donghyuck would rarely speak of the war. He’d only mentioned it a few times in Renjun’s presence, and only very briefly. 

Once was when they’d seen a rat scuttling along the banks of the river Seine. They had been dangling their legs off the Pont Alexandre, listening to the quiet bustle of Parisian life. Donghyuck read aloud a new novel given to him by Sylvia Beach at the book lending shop on rue de l’Odéon, and Renjun tilted his face towards the sun, listening to the melody of Donghyuck’s voice, but not his words. 

A rat scurried through the crowd on the bridge, on its light, pit-pattering feet. The women shrieked and jumped out of its path, holding hands over their hearts and fanning their faces. The men looked on at the creature in disgust.

“What’s all the fuss about? It’s as if they’ve never seen a rat before.” Renjun laughed heartily, turning to Donghyuck whose color had seemingly drained out of his face entirely, leaving a hardened husk with a set jaw and cruel eyes. 

“I despise rats,” he said, shutting the book and standing on the ledge, letting himself teeter as he looked down at the waters of the Seine. 

“Donghyuck, get down from there,” Renjun pleaded, a sudden shock of panic having caused him to grab onto his sleeve like a desperate mistress. 

“There were rats in the trenches you know,” Donghyuck said flatly. “They raided us in droves. Brought disease, chewed through our haversacks, ate our food.” Donghyuck spit into the water. “They’re foul little creatures. I hate them almost as much as I hate the Germans.” 

Renjun didn’t respond, just gently pulled him down from the ledge before he decided to leap off of it. 

A week later, Renjun gifted Donghyuck a rat skull he had found in a shop of oddities. It was meant to be a trophy of sorts, like a head on a stake. Donghyuck smiled around his cigarette when Renjun gave it to him, placing it on his desk by his porcelain cup of pencils and fountain pens. 

“Thank you, Renjun,” he had said. “She’s beautiful.” 

“I thought you hated them.” Renjun was pulled onto Donghyuck’s lap, his back pressed against the hard edge of the desk. It digs and stings and burns, but he ignores it for fear that Donghyuck will let him go. 

“They’re beautiful when they’re dead, don’t you think?” Donghyuck started kissing his throat, and when Renjun threw his head back, he came face-to-face with the hollow sockets of that ivory skull. 

Renjun wondered if Donghyuck would think he’s beautiful too, with his flesh melted away and only the milky white mineral of his skeleton to prove he was ever alive. Renjun didn’t think so. Donghyuck liked him alive and warm, pliant flesh to bruise. 

Renjun tasted alcohol on his lips, something spicy and warm. Absinthe. Renjun couldn’t stand it on its own, but on Donghyuck’s tongue it was nothing short of a treat. 

When Donghyuck bedded him that night, he wondered if it was possible he was drunk, too. Drunk on the mist of alcohol Donghyuck breathed into his mouth, or perhaps drunk off his own delusions. Because, maybe, one day, when Donghyuck throws him onto the sheets of his bed, he’d say he loved him. 

  
  
  
  


There were times when Renjun believed Donghyuck wasn’t with him. Times when he was transported back to the trenches. To the desolation and flooding and loneliness and death. 

“I sent 240 letters,” Donghyucks said one day, completely out of the blue while Renjun painted at his easel by the window. “I never got one back.” Donghyuck laid naked in the rough folds of Renjun’s bed, littering it with ash from his cigarettes. 

“Who did you send them to?” Renjun asked softly, drawing a smooth, curved line down the canvas. He was drawing a woman. A very soft woman with a pearl necklace dangling from her dainty fingers. It was broken, and the precious beads slipped from the silk thread one by one. The woman remained serene, clutching her chest with her other hand and staring longingly out a distant window, where the grass was a sandy brown and the sky grey. 

“My sister.” Donghyuck began to cough, and Renjun looked back at him worriedly. Donghyuck waved him off before he could begin to fuss and hacked into his fist, pounding his chest with the hand that holds his cigarette, making ash shower from it like rainfall. Once he caught his breath, he flicked his cigarette into the cup of water on Renjun’s bedside cabinet. “She was a real bearcat, that one. I’m surprised she didn’t chop her hair off and try to go to war herself.” 

Renjun didn’t think Donghyuck really wanted an answer to that, so he turned back to his painting, clutching tighter to his palette and dipping a paintbrush into the mauve. The color of twilight and sweet summer lilacs. Renjun could hear the sound of pearls hitting the wood floor at the woman’s feet, and could feel the ocean breeze coming through her window. He could hear the unsteady wheezing sound of her breath. A dead woman. 

“I would’ve given anything to have escaped that war, you know?” Donghyuck mused. “Would rather I died right there on the spot. Right when I got the letter. I shoulda done it.” 

“Don’t say that,” Renjun said harshly. “You’re alive, aren’t you? You should be grateful.” It might’ve been selfish, but Renjun loathed the idea that Donghyuck could even imagine a world where they’d never met. Just the thought of it made Renjun’s skin crawl with malaise. He’d always felt that their meeting was such a wonderful stroke of happenstance. He wasn’t sure if he could even chalk it up to serendipity. Five years ago, Renjun would’ve believed it was by the hand of god. 

He’d since learned to simply accept the inherent unknown that came with existence. 

“I’ll say whatever I like, Renjun.” Donghyuck got up from the bed, the sheets elegantly slipping off his form and leaving his body bare. Donghyuck really shouldn’t be elegant. His body was hardened from military training, his hair cropped short, and he had ugly scars from the mustard gas running down his arms in fleshy ribbons. And yet, there was something so inexplicably delicate about that man. Renjun averted his eyes, his hand beginning to shake as he painted the olive hue of the woman’s draping gown. “What, are you shy now?” 

“You’re shameless.” Renjun straightened his back, trying to pull himself together before he was caught. Caught doing what, Renjun didn’t know. All he knew was that he wouldn’t let himself be the butt of any more of Donghyuck’s ridicule. 

Renjun felt Donghyuck wrap his arms around his waist and begin to kiss along the line of his shoulder blades. 

“Who is she?” Donghyuck asked, resting his chin in the crook of Renjun’s neck as he gazed at his work. 

“She’s no one,” Renjun replied, setting his paintbrush and palette down onto his desk. “Don’t you have work to do?” 

“Is my presence no longer welcome?” 

“One does not write a play by lazing around in someone else’s bed for a full afternoon,” Renjun said pointedly. Donghyuck sighed and gave Renjun one last peck on the nape of his neck before pulling away. Renjun brushed his finger along that spot. Like a lovesick newlywed. He snatched his hand back before Donghyuck could see. 

“I’ll be back by the time the week is out,” Donghyuck said as he pulled his clothes back on from where they were scattered over Renjun’s floor. 

“You expect me to just wait here for you?” Renjun crossed his arms in discontent. 

“Well, won’t you?” Donghyuck asked cheekily. 

Renjun had no response other than ‘ _of course,’_ so he stayed mum. Donghyuck’s face still morphed into a self-satisfied smirk. Renjun wiped the excess paint streaking his hands onto his slacks. It was a marvel how cornered Donghyuck could make him feel in his own home. 

After Donghyuck had left, Renjun feverishly laid in his bed thinking about how Donghyuck’s skin had been so easily caressed by those sheets not even an hour prior. He could smell the tobacco laced into the fabric of his bedding, burning his nose from the inside out like acid. Renjun stretched himself across the bed like a cat, burying his face into the pillow, which was flattened by the ghost of Donghyuck’s skull. He felt closer to Donghyuck then than he ever did when they were really together. 

Renjun pressed two fingers to his mouth, and kissed them like they were Donghyuck’s lips. It wasn’t quite right. His lips were much fuller than Renjun’s bony fingers, and Donghyuck actually kissed back. Renjun could still pretend, though. 

Just like how he could pretend the women in his paintings didn’t have the same passive elegance as Donghyuck. 

  
  
  
  


Renjun waited for Donghyuck for weeks, but he heard nothing. No visits, no letters, no calls on the telephone. 

He nearly drove himself mad with worry. Renjun thought he might die alone in his tiny Paris apartment. A horrid, boring death. Turning to bones while he waited in earnest for the return of someone who’d never seen him as anything more than a warm body. A cheap whore. 

Renjun would die under the judgemental eyes of his paintings. 

That was what Renjun thought as he laid in bed, his heart aching so deeply Renjun thought it might be cracking clean in half. It was summer, and the air felt hazy with warmth. Like he was in a strange dream. That would explain why he could no longer feel his fingers or toes. 

Renjun was eventually jerked out of his trance when there was a knock at the door. Renjun thought he must’ve imagined it, that he must be going truly mad. He pressed a pillow against his ears, blocking out the pounding on his door. 

“Renjun!” The voice called. It was Donghyuck, there was no doubt about that. Renjun shook his head, starting to feel lightheaded from the lack of air. 

“Laissez-moi!” He yelled back. 

“Renjun, open the door or I’ll kick it down.” The banging on the door increased, and Renjun perked his ears up. Even if this voice _was_ a figment of his imagination, he didn’t want to pay the repair costs for an unhinged door. 

He pulled himself out of bed with difficulty, his head swimming as he tried to get his bearings. He wobbled to the door like a newborn fawn, unlocking it with unsteady hands. As soon as he worked the lock the right way, the door flew open and Donghyuck was all around him. Renjun’s face was pressed against his chest, Donghyuck’s fingers carded through his hair, and his breath tickled the side of his neck. 

“Renjun.” Donghyuck placed a soft kiss on Renjun’s jugular. “Renjun. I wrote a play.” 

Renjun could smell the telltale bitterness of alcohol on Donghyuck’s lips, and by the way he was so undignified and shameless in his affection, Renjun deduced that he was drunk. “Did you?” He asked, as though to a child. “That’s nice.” 

“Renjun, I really did it this time.” Donghyuck pulled away to look at Renjun’s face, his hands still gripping his shoulders. “I think I can get it staged.” 

“That’s wonderful, Donghyuck.” 

Renjun had long ago learned the deception of the phrase _in vino veritas._ Anything Donghyuck would say after a glass of gin, Renjun took with a grain of salt. 

“Dance with me, Renjun.” Donghyuck settled a hand firmly on his waist and held his hand up in a very proper ballroom dance. It was quite coordinated for how gone in the gutter Donghyuck must’ve been. 

“Why are we dancing?” Renjun asked, laughing at Donghyuck's antics. He had already forgotten that he was mad at Donghyuck. That he had been withering away in wake of his abandonment. 

“I went out dancing.” Donghyuck looked him directly in the eyes, like he was about to eat him alive. “I danced with so many girls, Renjun.” Donghyuck leaned closer to whisper in Renjun’s ear, “None of them were as beautiful as you.” 

Renjun looked down at their feet, only mere centimeters from one another. 

“I wish I could dance with you out in the streets,” Donghyuck spoke again. “I wish I could dress you in jewels and bring you to all those noisy writer’s parties.” 

“You know I’m not one for the glitz and glamour, anyways,” Renjun said quietly. “You can always take another lover, you know. One that will accompany you to all the social happenings.” They swayed in silence for a while, feet moving in lazy circles, slow enough that they didn’t get dizzy. Renjun rested his head against Donghyuck’s shoulder. 

“You don’t need the glitz and glamour anyways,” Donghyuck said wistfully. “You shine just as brilliantly without them.” Donghyuck slowly moved his hand from Renjun’s waist up the plane of his chest and rested his fingers on his throat, tracing his adam’s apple with his forefinger. Renjun’s breath quickened. Donghyuck looked stunning as always. His skin was glowing golden, a light flush on the crests of his cheeks. If it weren’t for the battle scars and the heavy cynicism he carried wherever he went, Renjun would think he was the purest thing on Earth. As serene and wholesome as a pearl. 

“You’re drunk, Donghyuck.” Renjun’s voice cracked. “Let’s get you into bed, okay?”

“Are you trying to make love to me, Renjun?” Donghyuck moved his hand from his throat and started unbuttoning his linen shirt. “Am I that irresistible?”

“Lâche-moi.” Renjun shoved Donghyuck away from him, running his fingers through his greasy hair, his shirt half unbuttoned. “Tu me rends fou.” 

“Toi aussi, mon chéri,” Donghyuck slurred, already stripping his dress shirt and collapsing onto Renjun’s bed. “Viens me rejoindre.” 

“Non.” Renjun shook his head, but Donghyuck looked at him with an eyebrow raised, as tempting and alluring as a moon-eyed siren. 

“Tu es sûre?” Donghyuck asked. He leaned back against the headboard, never breaking eye contact. “Vraiment, tu m’as manqué. Viens ici, embrasse-moi.” 

Renjun caved, as he always did. He approached the bed slowly, and Donghyuck moved to give him room, a victorious smile gracing his visage. Renjun laid on the bed on his side, over the covers and facing Donghyuck. 

“That wasn’t so hard,” Donghyuck said, reaching out to pull Renjun into his chest. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” 

Renjun turned to his other side, away from Donghyuck and his enchanting eyes. 

“Are you mad at me?” Donghyuck wrapped an arm around Renjun’s waist and pressed his chest against his back. Renjun could feel Donghyuck’s heartbeat beating rapidly in his chest. Probably due to the alcohol. Renjun put his hand over Donghyuck’s, interlacing their fingers. He wasn’t mad. He had long ago given Donghyuck the freedom to do with him what he wished. Back in the graveyard where they were indistinguishable from wandering ghosts. 

  
  
  
  


Renjun was submerged. His sense of hearing heightened and yet all noise sounding so far away. 

It was what he imagined death to feel like, a warm embrace. Death also felt like Donghyuck, with his hands gripping his hips and bearing down on him like scalding summer sun. 

All-encompassing warmth, the absence of rational thought, and the sense of surrendering. 

Renjun let a few air bubbles escape his nose, listening as they rapidly rose to the surface and broke with satisfying gurgling sounds. 

“Renjun!” Renjun heard a voice call out. It sounded panicked, but through the water, Renjun could believe it was a dream. 

Suddenly, he was awoken from his stupor, two hands gripping his shoulders and pulling him out of the water. Renjun spluttered a bit in shock, coughing as he tried to expel all the water he’d inhaled into his lungs. 

“What were you doing?” Donghyuck asked incredulously, slapping Renjun’s cheeks lightly as he collected himself. 

“Taking a bath,” Renjun responded, as if it was obvious. Renjun wiggled his toes in the water, pleased by the warmth. 

“I thought you were trying to drown yourself.” Donghyuck sat on the edge of the bathtub, lighting up a cigarette and looking positively haggard. “Scared me half to death, Renjun.” 

“Why would I try to drown myself?” Renjun wrinkled his nose. 

“I knew a man who drowned himself.” Donghyuck’s hands shook as he took another drag. “Right there in the trenches. When they started to flood.” 

“That’s horrible.” Renjun pulled his knees to his chest. “Why’d he do it?” 

“He was too young.” Donghyuck shook his head sadly. “He was a coward, I’ll admit, but he was too young for war.” 

“Everyone is too young for war.” 

“Were you drafted, Renjun?” Donghyuck asked suddenly. “Or were you one of those lucky bastards that didn’t get picked from the hat.” 

“I was, actually,” Renjun said wistfully. “I was too skinny. They said I looked sickly, too. They’d supposed I’d keel over dead just from a little food poisoning.” 

“Too skinny, huh?” Donghyuck mused, reaching to run his fingers against the prominent bones of Renjun’s ribs, slotting them in the spaces. “You _are_ a little thin, but you’re not sickly.” 

“You don’t think so?” 

“No, I don’t.” Donghyuck leaned down to kiss Renjun’s jaw. “I think you’re glowing.” 

“Don’t say things like that, Donghyuck,” Renjun said solemnly, staring at where his hand still rested on his ribcage. “I’ll start to believe you really mean it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Donghyuck asked. He removed his hand, placed it back in his lap and fidgeted with the hem of his nightshirt. 

“You have a very romantic way with words, Donghyuck,” Renjun answered. “But you throw them around so carelessly; I don’t think you know what they mean anymore.”

“Or perhaps you don’t know what you mean to me.” 

“Do not try to charm me.” Renjun submerged his ears in the water. “I am not a mistress, Donghyuck. I am a man. You don’t need to sugarcoat your words with me.”

“I may be a romantic, but I sugarcoat nothing.” Donghyuck flicked the ashes of his cigarette into Renjun’s bath. Perhaps in retaliation. “Is that really what you think? That I come here only pour _faire l’amour_?”

“You’ve never made love to me once,” Renjun said scathingly. “I think the war leeched the love out of your heart. Or maybe you poured it into those 240 letters in the trenches.” 

Donghyuck’s face hardened. He flicked the rest of his cigarette into the pale green waters of Renjun’s bath, getting up from where he had been perched on the tub. Renjun watched him leave without a word, heard the slam of the front door as he left the apartment. He sighed, feeling the creeping vines of guilt begin to wrap around his heart. 

He lowered himself into the water once more, until he could feel the crown of his head sink under the warmth. He slipped back into his state of nothingness, running his hand through his hair, which floated silkily in the water. No matter how long he stayed there, thoughts of Donghyuck pervaded his mind like a virus. 

Renjun thought about his quick, tobacco-tasting tongue and his beautiful scars and the way he seemed to know exactly where to poke and prod at Renjun to get the reaction he wanted. Donghyuck played him like a harp, with skilled, delicate fingers. It was almost cruel, the precision and care he took when pulling him apart. Such an artful way to commit such a violent act. 

However, Renjun had never considered the possibility that he was doing the same to Donghyuck. 

  
  
  
  


Renjun was shocked when he was told Donghyuck would be staging his play at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. He hadn’t seen him in over two months, and he felt he might die from the slowness of Parisian life. Renjun had camped for days in the cafés Donghyuck loved to frequent so much with his writer friends, just in the hopes of catching a glimpse. As if Donghyuck was some rare fox and he the hunter. 

He’d received a letter, with no indication of who it was from, with a newspaper cutout tucked inside. It was an advertisement for Donghyuck’s play. _La Grandeur de la Guerre._ Renjun thought it sounded horribly depressing. Although he didn’t expect Donghyuck to write about anything other than the war. The war was his first love. 

Also tucked inside the deep green envelope was a single ticket. Renjun rubbed it between his fingers for a while. Donghyuck had touched that ticket. That ticket was the closest that Renjun had been to Donghyuck in a long while. 

He brought it to his lips and kissed it reverently. November 30th. He etched the date into his heart. 

  
  
  
  


The Théâtre des Champs-Élysées was grandiose, and so were the people inside it. Renjun felt like a lost lamb as he filed into the theatre, surrounded by bejeweled socialites who talked and laughed and gossiped in such a dizzyingly flippant manner. The women all wore their rouge, and the men their best hats. Renjun felt terribly underdressed, but he tended to blend into the background, so he didn’t worry about any judgemental eyes. 

He searched the crowd desperately for a glimpse of Donghyuck, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it was silly of him to think Donghyuck would be milling about the lobby before his proper debut in French theatre. 

He settled into his seat, which was placed in the balcony facing the stage. Donghyuck must’ve made sure he got a good spot. Or maybe he was just lucky. He surveyed his surroundings again, looking for the telltale tuft of Donghyuck’s honeybrown hair. Instead, he was captivated by the stunning architecture of the theatre. 

It was modern, a sophisticated art deco style consisting of lots of angles and shapes and gold. However, when Renjun turned his eyes skyward, in the center of the ceiling was a convex glass dome, with the perfect image of a flower. Haloing the glass fixture was a painting, or a series of paintings, depicting women dancing while draped in shimmering sheer fabrics. His mouth fell open slightly as he stared in wonderment. He couldn’t believe Donghyuck’s play would be staged here. It was positively otherworldly. Although, Renjun didn’t get out into the world much. 

The lights dimmed, and the curtains rustled. Then, like a wonderful vision, Donghyuck appeared under the lights of the stage. 

“Bienvenue, mesdames et messieurs,” he announced, a dashing smile adorning his features as extravagantly as the feather in his hat. He continued on, but Renjun’s mental faculties were mysteriously diminished, until all he could possibly think was _Donghyuck looks like a dream._

When Donghyuck bowed off the stage, Renjun politely clapped his hands with the rest of the audience. He felt dazed, positively starstruck. He barely noticed when the curtain was lifted, and the play began. 

Truthfully, Renjun couldn’t understand much. The actors on stage all spoke in heavy French accents, with nimble delivery of the dialogue. Renjun couldn’t keep up with the philosophy, the marrow of the piece. All Renjun could see was the pearly surface of the bone, glistening under the lights like a pearl. 

The play wasn’t set during the war, strangely enough. It followed a soldier, who was simply referred to throughout the play as “le soldat.” He had fought in the Battle of Argonne Forest. Renjun could recognize some key words from his story. Le gaz, les rats, un fantôme. Words he recognized from Donghyuck’s own tales from the trenches. 

As the story went: le soldat woke up in a hospital, surrounded by nurses, to discover that his leg had been amputated. Shaken by grief and haunted by the horrors of the war, le soldat escaped to a nearby city. A city alive with the sounds of jazz and the swish and swing of post-war prosperity. 

He hated the city and its people. He believed them to be shallow, animalistic, dismissive of the hardship he and his fellow soldiers had overcome. He became a drunkard, always in and out of bars and screaming damnation to the stars.

Le soldat lived a very lonely life. 

He hobbled around the city on his crutches, searching for meaning. Le soldat was a creative man, one who found lifeblood under every stone and in every flower. However, the bricks of the city laid lifeless as fisheyes. 

In his wanderings, le soldat happened upon a graveyard, where the headstones towered over his head like trees. It was in this maze of death, disease, and desolation that he met le peintre. Le peintre was lost, just like le soldat. 

Le peintre and le soldat spent every second they could in each other’s presence. They would speak to each other about their lives before the city, read together, feed each other grapes ripe off the vine. 

Renjun could hardly see through his tears. 

One day, le peintre and le soldat got into an argument. Renjun couldn’t understand what it was about, but he didn’t need to. Le soldat gathered le peintre into his arms, tried to force him to stay, but to no avail. 

They separated, and le soldat once more was left to roam the streets of the city on his crutches, like a sorrowful alley cat. 

While he was walking, he came across a newspaper, headlining a story about a painter who took his life by throwing himself into the river Seine. Le soldat crumbled to the ground, screaming damnation to the stars. 

The scene before the final curtain displayed le soldat, weeping on his knees in front of the grave of le peintre, hanging a pearl necklace on his gravestone. 

When the curtains closed, Renjun bolted out of his seat, pushing past the ladies in their gowns and jewels and all the men with their oiled moustaches. He flew down the stairs, shoving his way through the crowd. Startled gasps from the ladies and barking shouts from the men trailed him as he ran through the halls. He nearly tripped on a crease in the carpet, but he quickly righted himself and sprinted for the main lobby. 

He saw him there, holding a glass of champagne and chatting idly to a man scribbling furiously in a notepad while another took Donghyuck’s picture. A crowd was forming. Of reporters, photographers, critics, and admirers. Renjun pressed through the mob until he reached the eye of the storm: Donghyuck leaning against the wall, looking like a movie star with the way he held a cigarette in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. 

Renjun had always been a person of quiet restraint. He was not a drinker, not a smoker, not a partygoer. He preferred to keep his head down and let the world come to him. But in that moment, when he locked eyes with Donghyuck, he couldn’t hold himself back from throwing himself into his arms. 

Donghyuck’s drink went flying out of his hand before breaking unceremoniously on the marble floor of the theatre. The room went mum for a moment, before the chatter reached its crescendo. Lights flashed, pens flew, voices murmured. But through it all, Renjun looked into Donghyuck’s eyes like there was nothing else in the world. 

“Mon soldat,” Renjun whispered, quiet and away from the listening ears of the journalists. 

“Mon peintre,” Donghyuck replied, his smile as radiant as the sun. 

Renjun circled his arms around Donghyuck’s neck, vowing to himself never to let go. 

  
  
  
  


_La Grandeur de la Guerre_ was never staged in Paris again. Donghyuck and Renjun had been blacklisted by Paris high society due to accusations of homosexuality, and effectively shunned from the creative epicenter of the world. 

That was alright, though. Neither of them cared for Paris very deeply anyways. 

They ended up moving back to the states and settling in New York City, where jazz culture flourished even more vibrantly than it did in Paris. Harlem provided a rich nightlife, with all kinds of queer people in attendance. He and Renjun once stumbled upon a crazy group of fellows dressed like women and dancing and having sex in a club right in the center of Harlem. Right under the police’s nose. They had free drinks, so they stayed a while, even if Renjun found the display a little too vulgar for his tastes. 

In New York, Renjun and Donghyuck fell in love all over again. Without the watchful nightlights of Paris, and without the melodramatic sense of loneliness that imbued their relationship. 

“Mon soldat,” Renjun whispered into the dark. 

“Oui, mon peintre?” 

“Cette nuit, je veux que tu fasses-moi l’amour.”

“Bien sûr.” Donghyuck reached out for Renjun in the dark, and Renjun shivered when his palms met the skin of his back. “Why are you speaking in French to me?” 

“C’est romantique, non?” Renjun grasped one of Donghyuck’s hands and pressed gentle kisses to the back of his palm. “How long have you been in love with me?”

“You were wandering through a graveyard, like a little sacrificial lamb,” Donghyuck mused. Renjun slapped him on his chest.

“You’re lying. Tell me the truth.”

“How do you know I’m lying?” 

“You did not love me at first sight,” Renjun said definitively. “Tell me.”

“Renjun, I’ve been in love with you my whole life. I just didn’t know it yet.” Donghyuck held Renjun’s eyes even in the dimness of the room. “But I realized it when I found you in the bath, and I thought you were dead.” 

Renjun stayed silent. 

“I hadn’t realized how much you really meant to me until I was faced with the possibility of losing you.”

“I loved you since the start, you know,” Renjun said against his skin. “I almost told you the first day. When you bedded me.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Why’s that?” 

“I would’ve ran away.” Donghyuck kissed the top of Renjun’s hair. “I’m a coward, Renjun. You know that much about me.”

“You are the bravest man I’ve ever met,” Renjun whispered, softly kissing the bare skin of Donghyuck’s chest. 

“How so?”

“You were brave enough to love me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this one to the gays. May you love without fear.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/crescentjunnie)   
>  [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/crescentjunnie)


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